Land n Sand Jan / Feb 2014 - Page 38

J
ust as one thinks, by Eris, at last all this Christmassiness is over, the shortest month
is on us and with it, oh dread, St Valentines Day. Why then so negative, one might
rightfully ask. Actually, I love St. Valentines, and all that comes with it – except perhaps
the marketing and long-stemmed roses and all the pressure they bring to bear on one.
I had a lovely St Valentines a year ago, with a lovely woman. Now, sadly, hardly my friend
any more and well on the way to another lovely St. Valentines Day with someone else. In
fact, last year was the only wonderful St Valentines Day I can recall. There was, of course,
the time where I as youngster retrieved a beribboned letter from our mulberry tree, with as
much dread as hopeful curiosity. It wasn’t from whom I’d hoped it
was, I’ve grown to believe, but from a large, weird girl with braces
and downturned eyes who once, so long ago, spoke to me a single
time, who I icily rejected and never saw again. One day Karma
might die, but I’m not holding my breath. What I’m saying is that
there’s a pattern here and Valentines is the repeating tile, with me
smack in the middle of all of them. One fool calling you an ass you
ignore; when a string of them come beating at your door to tell
you so, you go buy yourself a saddle.
So here I am, on my way to the saddler, and what do you think I
shall buy? Alcohol, of course, and plenty of it. Here’s the thing
about bitterness – it’s only nice in sweetness and in beer, and
then only when you cannot have enough of it. OK, there’s
olives too, and a few people I guess, and for some reason
bitterballen. But they don’t count and even if they did or
were robed in sweetness I wouldn’t write about them.
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